


The Monster in My Heart

by Akiko_Natsuko



Series: Reaper76 [80]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Memories, Post-Omnic Crisis, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Serious Injuries, Strained Relationships, Trauma, Very loosely based on the idea of Beauty and the Beast, ongoing twitter thread fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: Jack Morrison didn’t return from the Crisis as the poster boy for the Strike team, or as the face of the new organisation that was being formed. In fact, many people thought he hadn’t returned at all as he disappeared off the face of the Earth. If Jack could have his way, it would remain like that as he locked himself away - wounded, haunted - a broken man, but Gabriel has other ideas.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Series: Reaper76 [80]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188655
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	The Monster in My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/jdpcfy6XTB).

Jack Morrison didn’t return from the Crisis as the poster boy for the Strike team, or as the face of the new organisation that was being formed.

In fact, many people thought he hadn’t returned at all.

He wasn’t at the press conferences or the photos that were released to the media who were always hungry for news and details of their Heroes. His face was known, his name was known, he just wasn’t there. There were no records of his death, yet when his name cropped up during questions, the entire strike team would fall silent, and share looks that weren’t quite grief but close.

It was Gabriel Reyes – the new poster boy - who eventually broke the silence. Informing the reporters and therefore world, in quiet, measured tones that Jack Morrison had been discharged from duty due to his injuries and that he had requested privacy while he recovered.

It was reasonable. After all, none of the strike team had emerged unscathed, and the casualties from the Crisis were still being calculated, but the press, hungry as ever for a story was far from satisfied. They sensed a story, tasting blood in the water.

Why had it taken so long to inform them was Jack Morrison was?

What had happened to one of the few ‘Super-soldiers’ known to have survived the controversial SEP program that was only just come to light, that could have led to a discharge?

Why did the Strike Team refuse to answer their questions? And why had Gabriel Reyes, looked as though that announcement had physically hurt him?

They started to dig. It took time. Lives weren’t the only thing that had been disturbed by the Crisis, communications were down, information had been lost, and to all intents and purposes, it seemed like Jack Morrison had dropped off the face of the earth.

**

Jack Morrison wished that he could drop off the face of the planet. That he could find somewhere to disappear to where no one would be able to find him. For now, he’d done the next best thing and gone back to Indiana. Back to the farm where he’d grown up.

Not home. Not anymore.

He wasn’t the child who’d run through these fields, playing soldier and wishing for something more. He wasn’t the eighteen-year-old who’d stormed out all those years ago, chasing the dream of a world beyond the cornfields. He wasn’t even the SEP candidate who’d come back on leave, just in case, unable to tell them what he was doing. What he was risking.

In fact, he wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

A Hero? He’d left before they could call him that, and whenever he looked at what remained of himself in the mirror, all he saw was a monster.

A soldier? He couldn’t think about the Crisis, about the weight of the rifle in his hands without beginning to tremble.

A Coward? Possibly. He’d run. Left his friends…former friends to deal with the world that remained in the wake of the war and fled.

It had been the only way he could survive, at least that was what he told himself. Not wanting to think about the worried – pitying – looks, the conversations that said nothing and yet too much. The silence and sideways glances, the distance that came with difference. He was changed, they knew it, he knew it, and none of them had known how to deal with it, and so he’d run.

Here, to a home that wasn’t a home anymore and not just because he’d changed.

The war had left it’s mark here too. A further testament in his mind that it had all been for nothing, that everything he had done and suffered had been futile. It was there in the house – so warm and alive in his memories – that now sat empty. Hollow. Half of it falling apart, torn apart by the same attack that had ripped through the fields and the barn…and his father.

He’d been overseas when the news had come through. Almost numb to it at that point. What naivety he’d had long crushed by war and loss. He’d mourned, at least he thought he had. He’d tried, and he’d sent the right words back home, unable to go himself, but now in front of the house, he wasn’t sure he had. He couldn’t now.

His heart as hollow as the house he’d once loved.

His mother had moved, gone to live with her sister in the city and wanted nothing more to do with the farm. The workers were gone. The livestock sold. It could barely be called a farm anymore. That was fine, after all, he could scarcely be called a soldier anymore.

They matched, he thought as he limped up the path. A bag – not even full – slung across his shoulder, all his worldly possessions wrapped in canvas.

A broken house for a broken man.

**

He didn’t do much in those first couple weeks. Tried to tell himself it was because he didn’t want to, not ready to admit that he couldn’t. Not just because of the pain that was a constant presence, a murmur beneath his skin that he couldn’t escape. The limbs that no longer responded as they should, a delay, a hesitation…a breaking. No, it was something deeper that stopped him. A hooked, gnarled thing that had taken root in the hospital room and only continued to grow, slithering into the parts of him that he didn’t want to think about.

And so, he existed.

In that broken house. In the room that had once been his, stripped bare after he’d left. A blank canvas. A guest room. It fitted he supposed, as he felt like a guest in this place he should have belonged. An unwelcome one at that. He’d unpacked, but it made no difference, the only personal item – a framed photo he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave behind, was quickly buried in a bottom drawer. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

He couldn’t forget.

He couldn’t stop thinking.

In the quiet. In the hollowness. His thoughts were all he had, and even they were twisted. Like his body, and the marks across his face. Wounds that no longer bled but hurt all the same. Doubts. Whispers. Memories. They didn’t stay in his mind either, seeping out and twisting the world around him.

The pounding of the rain against windows and roof became the sound of raining gunfire. Distant thunder was a Bastion’s cannon fire. The lights in the driveway one night were optics glistening in the dark, Omnics readying for an attack. The knocking on the door was the Strike team – was Jack - frantically searching for survivors.

Wait…

Jack’s head snapped up from where it had been buried against his knees, and for a moment, he was caught. Trapped between past and present. His breath a whistling sound between clenched teeth. Then the knocking came again, closer this time, more real.

Someone was there.

Jack had always been a people person. His mother had always loved to regale the tale of how at four years old he’d made the trek by himself to their nearest neighbours because he wanted to meet them. He’d managed to make friends with Gabriel, who after losing so many in SEP had been reluctant to let anyone else close, least of all ‘a fresh-behind the ears, corn boy’ as he’d put it. He was the one who spoke to survivors, earning tired smiles from those who had seen too much, gaining their trust, caring about them.

Or he had been.

Apparently, that was another thing lost. Another wound on his soul, as he found himself frozen in place, heart pounding in his ears. Someone was here. He tried to tell himself it was just because no one should know he was here. He hadn’t even told Gabe where he was going, melting away into nothingness without a word. Hiding. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.

The thought of facing another person, of letting them see what he saw in the mirror each day, terrified him. Not the pity. Not the way eyes would widen at his ruined features. But the fear that would come when they realised what he had become. The empty words, frightened glances and quick excuses that would follow once they realised, he was a monster.

They were knocking again, more insistent this time.

Refusing to go away.

Gabriel…

He hated how his heart jumped at the thought. At the hope that blossomed. Gabe had been the most persistent in the hospital, visiting him each day, chatting to him even when Jack refused to respond. He’d even managed to hide the pity more than most. A last token of love, Jack had thought, but if he had come all this way…

He’d thought he’d lost all hope, and yet he found himself uncurling. Slowly. Painfully. A wild animal being lured out by the promise of something more. It seemed to take a lifetime for him to get to his feet, unsteady and aching, as made his way down the stairs.

Abruptly, he became aware of the state of the house. He hadn’t touched a thing, beyond clearing enough of the dirt to be able to cook in the kitchen, and enough debris to make a path to the bedroom. He hadn’t seen the point, but now it bothered him, an itch between the shoulders, a shame that gnawed at him at the thought of Gabriel seeing him like this.

But the knocking was continuing, more impatient this time, and it was too late to turn back.

The hope swelling with each stumbling step, chasing away the hollowness if just for a moment, and that won out, as he reached for the door, unlocking it with trembling hands and swinging it open.

It wasn’t Gabriel.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright car lights that lit the doorway and the front of the house, his breath coming hard and fast, mind racing with thoughts of how to escape. He felt vulnerable. Exposed. Raw and hollow, the hope seeping away as quickly as it formed. And it took him longer than it should for his gaze to settle on the man at the door. At the familiar features – an old neighbour possibly? He recognised the face, but his mind was beyond making connections at that moment, torn between fight and flight, and a crushing disappointment.

“Jack? Jack Morrison? Is that really you?” There it was. The fear. The pity. He saw it in the eyes that flickered across his face, taking in the damage, and then down to the rest of him, and then away. A reflexive shudder. “We saw the lights and were worried…”

It took Jack a moment to realise that they were waiting for him to respond, and his breath caught. He hadn’t said a word in weeks. He didn’t know what to say. But they were staring, watching him expectantly and gritting his teeth, he found his voice. “Yeah, I moved back a week or so ago…” He didn’t recognise his own voice. Rough and gravelly from disuse, it sounded more like the growl of a wild beast, than a person and the man flinched, before forcing a smile.

“That’s great.” A lie. The waver in the middle betrayed him, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve all been wondering what would happen to this place. It’s good to know it’s back in use. If you need any help…” The pity was stronger this time, a sideways glance at the leg that wouldn’t straighten and his face. A note of reluctance slipping in at the end. The offer was expected nothing more, and Jack almost laughed – did they think they could fix this place? Fix him?

“I don’t need your help,” he growled instead, the humour dying and leaving in its wake a wave of burning anger that swelled to fill the hole in his chest. He didn’t like it, didn’t trust it, but it was something, and he straightened as best he could. “Stay off my land or…” He trailed off, the threat unfinished but present, leaving a foul taste on his tongue.

What was he becoming?

The very thing he’d seen in his reflection, he reflected as the man backed away, arms raised as though he expected Jack to lunge at him at any moment. It was tempting. An act, that wasn’t an act to make sure that he would be left alone. That he wouldn’t see that pity, that fear again, and he stepped forward without thinking, and his unwanted guest bolted to the car, babbling apologies and promises not to disturb him again. And the dark, twisted thing in his chest purred with satisfaction as the car shot into reverse, fleeing from him, and taking with it the last shreds of hope. Leaving him to retreat into the empty house alone.

That night he broke every mirror and window in the place.

**

It was barely two days later that the first reporter turned up on his doorstep.

Jack had prepared. Not for the press, but for anyone else turning up. Not Gabriel. He’d banished that hope, burying it as deep as possible. Locked away before the ugly, gnarled thing in his chest. Just as he locked himself away.

The debris from the barn, and whatever he could salvage from the damaged part of the house had been hauled out to form a barricade around the house.

A wall to keep the world out, and the monster trapped inside.

He’d been shoring it up, the work taking two, three times as long as it would have before. The strength was still there, the SEP enhancements had left him that much at least, and more than once as he struggled to balance himself, he cursed the enhancements for keeping him alive in this broken body.

He had just lost his temper – always on a short fuse these days – slamming his fist into a beam, and cursing as skin broke, splinters digging into his skin, when he heard the car on the driveway.

It was like that night, flight and fight instincts kicking in. He wanted no one near him, wanted to hide away in the house and wait for his wall to do its job, and yet he found himself locked in place as he watched the car approach. He didn’t recognise it, and his lip curled in a snarl – more defensive than anything as it drew to a halt just beyond his barricade.

“Hello!” The man – boy – looking as though he was fresh out of college called as he all but bounded from the car, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. He’d learned to sniff out the press in those long months of the Crisis. They had dogged the Strike Team. Dogged him. He’d learned to smile and give answers that revealed nothing and hated every moment of it.

This boy screamed reporter at him, even before he saw the tag hanging around his neck. Jack said nothing, turning away, everything telling him to get out of there before he did something he regretted. This wasn’t a neighbour. Wasn’t a friend. And losing his temper here would only land him in trouble, and Jack was done with trouble.

“Wait! I…” There was the sound of shifting debris, followed by a yelp and Jack glanced back to see the boy had got tangled on the barricade. He didn’t speak, just stared and waited, watching as the reporter freed himself and took a wary step back, looking between the barricade and Jack in evident confusion, before swallowing and finding his voice. “I’m looking for Jack Morrison, is that…you?”

Jack could see him studying him, no doubt trying to reconcile the creature in front of him with the image the world had managed to build of Jack Morrison.

He could see the moment he fell short of that image and tried to tell himself that he didn’t care. That it didn’t hurt, even as the gnarled thing in his chest twisted tighter as he turned away again, taking two stilted steps before glancing back.

“Jack Morrison is dead.”

He fled then as best he could, staggering back inside and slamming the door. Locking it tight, before retreating up to his bedroom, broken glass still crunching underfoot after his outbursts the other night, the sound dragging on already stretched nerves.

In his room, he inched to the shattered window, pressing himself into the wall as he peered outside. The boy hadn’t left. For several minutes he stared at the door – shocked perhaps before his eyes swept across the house and Jack shrank back because there was hunger in those eyes. For the truth? For a story? A sensation? He supposed it didn’t make any difference, especially in this case.

A Hero becomes a Monster.

He could see it now, the headlines, the camera flashes…

Just as he had every time, they’d had a failed mission, or been a little too late, a little too reckless. The truth was a commodity, one that could be turned into a weapon. It had been true then when the world held him on a pedestal, and he doubted that his barricade could protect him from it now.

Glancing outside again, he cursed as he saw the boy on the phone. Unable to make out the words from this distance, he realised that he didn’t need to. He recognised that look, that fervour, that hunger to chase a story to the bitter end.

He was calling in reinforcements.

And this time Jack was alone.


End file.
